


Blood

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hints of Johnlock - Freeform, Hints of child abuse, Johnlock - Freeform, hints of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always did have a fascination with blood, and it is a sick irony that his story first starts and ends with that sanguine hue.<br/>[Sherlock centred with mentions of Mycroft and John]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood

The earliest childhood memory Sherlock cared to access in his mind palace was that of blood. 

Blood fascinated Sherlock.  
He had watched as it had streamed out of his nose and flowed through his grubby fingers, staining white shirts irreparably. It had seemed like a liquid, by the way it gushed, but no.

 _Blood is a tissue_ Mycroft told him, as he dabbed at the stubborn trickles that still dared leak.  _There are red blood cells, then there are white blood cells_  Mycroft crooned, his voice soft yet clear in the darkness of the cellar Mycroft often found the need to break into.  _Plasma and platelets_ Mycroft whispered as he cradled and rocked Sherlock, waiting for his even breaths.

Mycroft bandaged the multiple cuts and gashes on Sherlock's limbs, eyes closed to avoid wincing at the sight of the blues that ghosted between jutting ribs of a pale chest. He made his exit among shuddering breaths, remembering to lock the door again behind him. It won't do for Mummy to find out, and Mycroft would not risk any more harm tp befall his brother.

It had stemmed from a twisted curiosity to observe the aging of blood, the effects of deoxygenation and exposure to various elements, the process of clotting. The abundance and convenience of said tissue did not hurt, or rather, it did. While others his age had arms marred with horizontal angr red slashes born out of too much emotion, too much to hold inside and not enough mental capacity to deal with it (or so Mycroft says the adults say), Sherlock sported precise thin white scars that go so deep and barely avoided the major arteries in his limbs. The bruises were now gone, and if there were any, heavily hidden behind curtains of stolen concealer belonging to a female classmate.  
Their scars had screamed of frustration and sadness and desperation, Sherlock's only served to let out more rivers of red, and barely stirred. If anything, Sherlock was cold, and each surgical slice only emptied a little more of him, and each closed wound only closed off Sherlock to the world a little more.  
Mycroft found him on some nights, arm propped up and blood pooling drop by drop into a jar. But there was _-is-_ no stopping Sherlock, and Mycroft can't bear to try. Mycroft only watched Sherlock, and watched everything else when the red became too overpowering. Mycroft watched the flickers of candle light dance on the reflection of his brother's reflection on the glass of the jars. He watched as each drop spattered a little more blood onto Sherlock's reflection. He watched Sherlock watching as the bright red of fresh blood from his veins fell... mixing with the darker half-congealated blood.

Mycroft swore that sometimes he'd see a few clear drops in the mix, but he must've been mistaken.

Sherlock grew, and the scars were barely perceptible, settling into his pale skin as if they had always, or rather, never been there. There were no new ones, hadn't been any in half a decade, but the jars were still there, and they lined the shelf atop his bed in his private little room, arranged by age. On particularly bad days, Sherlock would open one, first holding his breath, then inhaling the sickly miasma of stale blood. He needs that reminder, he needs the reassurance that the old Sherlock that had bled alone on cold cellar floors was no more.  
The reminder would stay, too, the thick heaviness of the scent clinging to everything, until Mycroft visited and sprayed whatever cologne or air freshener he had brought along. He always had left them behind, and Sherlock almost always threw them away right after. There was one time where Sherlock had set one on fire, and Mycroft now makes sure to get those that had no alcohol nor oil content. He had no wish of seeing the haunted look in his brother's eyes by the incendiary flames.  
The smell of blood still lingered though, and hung in the air of their shared apartment as Sherlock buries himself in case after case. Mycroft finally gets a high-enough position in the government, and urges Sherlock to move out. Perhaps a little company would do him good.

"Who would want me for a flatmate?"

After John, the jars of blood are shoved to the back of cupboards, pickled eyes and skulls replacing them in prominence. The thrill of the chase and tang of fresh blood kept Sherlock exhilirated, and for the first time he could truly say he felt _alive_. His eyes lightened from the dark gray of charred wood and ash into the blue-gray of a cloudy sky. It still had a touch of blue, still retained a little hope that the sun would shine. They still were empty, his eyes, but Mycroft noted that Sherlock's hair had never been as windswept and wild as it was with John, and Mycroft observed from behind the scenes as Sherlock's brows furrow just a little less, his neck muscles tensing just a little less, his shoulders falling just a little more, his mouth just a little less stiff, and curving up just a little more around the corners whenever John is around. Mycroft considered kidnapping John, but settled for a warning instead, and is glad to see attachments and loyalty forming.  
He hoped Sherlock wouldn't fall too far, and that the billowing of his black trench coat would be enough for John to follow, that the scarf trailing in the wind would be enough to anchor Sherlock by John's side, before a gust too strong blows, and Sherlock pitches off the edge. He hoped John would be there, still, to catch his brother.

Everything flashes through Sherlock's mind, and he notes the bright but brief appearances of red and black. As spots begin to cloud his vision, Sherlock looks down, at his abdomen, at the redblood that was seeping out of the hole in his middle, staining his dark cloak an even darker shade. Sherlock feels hands scrabbling at his, and the cry of "Sherlock!" in that loud voice that he had grown accustomed to, but could never tire of hearing.

Then it was cold again.

 

Mycroft could only console himself with the fact that the dimples of Sherlock's childhood had made an appearance in his last moments, as he closes the lid, taking one last look at his brother. A black coat was still spread beneath him, and his hair was still unruly, spidery finger clutching a boquet of blood red roses that contrasted greatly with the pallid skin and the deep dark hair and cloak. Mycroft swears, as John looks down, that three drops of clear liquid drips onto the roses, and rolled down onto pale hands. But he must be mistaken.

He doesnt miss the twin flashes of gold amidst the earth that John throws in.

**Author's Note:**

> Undergoing Editing.


End file.
